The Truth We Know
by lashadas
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has no words for his army doctor. He has nothing but his name. Remember me, John. Remember me.


So this just happened. Written really quickly and beta'd barely at all. If there are errors, I'm really sorry! Not brit-picked. I just needed this out of my system. I haven't written Sherlock in a while, and I feel like this last part of the episode needed a bit of Sherlock's thoughts in it.

I do not own Sherlock, and I do not own the Anne Sexton poem quoted at the beginning, and I barely own the title because it was inspired by the Anne Sexton poem.

Sadly, I don't know if this will make much sense unless you have seen season three. But to those who haven't, WHY HAVEN'T YOU? This fic contains a lot of inside information to His Last Vow.

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_My darling, the wind falls in like stones_  
_from the whitehearted water and when we touch_  
_we enter touch entirely. No one's alone._  
_Men kill for this, or for as much._

**-'The Truth the Dead Know' by Anne Sexton**

It is two o'clock on a particularly sunny day in January by the time they decide to fly him out. It is a private jet, of course. Mycroft has ensured his comfort. He does not yet know if he wants it; if he even deserves it.

The air is biting cold, and his coat is a thick layer between him and the outside world as always. John and Mary are there, appearing out of the car with stony expressions. Mary's eyes are shining, and he takes comfort in her embrace for the short moment it exists around him. She looks at him knowingly, like always, because it is hard for him to hide from her. They both love an extraordinary man. They both would do anything for him. Kill for him.

Die for him.

John is stoic. He was a soldier, after all. Now, he is no longer in danger. He is now safe to have everything he wanted. Sherlock is not dead, and John has a wife willing to give her life to him. A stolen one, yes, but a life all same. It is more than Sherlock can give him.

Friends are forgotten in the long run anyway. What is it Mrs. Hudson said? The end of an era.

Isn't it just simpler to leave again? To leave early before things get messy. Before things get _sentimental_.

He wants to tell him, to say that there is no reason for him to be unhappy. He wants to tell him that his life is much better without him in it. He wants to tell him that he would shoot Magnussen again if it meant making him safe and happy. He wants to tell him that he is not a sociopath, not even a high functioning one. He wants to tell him that Magnussen was right, that John Watson is Sherlock Holmes' pressure point. He wants to tell him that he loves him. He wants to tell him that this can't be love because this is something more than that.

_Sentiment_.

Sherlock Holmes has no words for his army doctor. He has nothing but his name.

_Remember me, John. Remember me, _he thinks.

John looks at him like a recovering addict. He looks at him like he does not need him anymore and Sherlock's insides feel like sludge.

"Sherlock is a girls' name." Sherlock jokes.

"No, it's not." John laughs.

_No John, but it means fair haired and between you and Mary your daughter should have beautiful, fair, lovely hair. _

He gets on the plane, and it's a bit like falling off a building. It's a bit like almost hitting the ground, only to catch yourself. It's a bit like pulling yourself back up and walking away.

Essentially it is the same. He's killed to save the man who saved him; to save the man who chose him all those years ago. And if there is one thing Sherlock learned from John, it was to save the man, _save the life_.

_At least he is alive_, Sherlock thinks. The comfort from this thought is drawn from a familiar, well-worn space.

In four minutes, his life, and the plane, is turned around. In four minutes Mycroft is telling him something impossible. Something terrifying.

In ten minutes he will step off the plane.

In eleven minutes John Watson will be in front of him again.

In eleven minutes, he will smile wide and spread his arms. The shaking of his hands will go unnoticed by any but Mycroft. His freedom is temporary, and his doctor is right in front of him.

"Miss me?" he says, and John does not respond except for a smile while England screams in terror from those same words, a reverberating echo in the distance.

There's a low hum above the sounds around him; words whispering shakily against the curve of his ears. When he looks at John, they become clearer. They are almost screaming now.

_Save the man._

He looks at Mary; at John and Mary, together, and at her swelling stomach.

_Save the life._

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Thanks for reading!


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